The Plunger To My Mob
by HaveringFool
Summary: Tumblr Rizzlers suggested a story of, what if Jane and Maura had followed in their fathers' footsteps? Well, I took a shot at trying, and here it is: Jane's a plumber, and Maura's a mob boss.
1. Chapter 1

Peanut and shell casings, cigarette butts and wads of facial tissues littered the floor. Boots caked with mud laid atop table tops and splotches of spilled beer added to the décor. The smell of lavender had been overridden and replaced by an acrid presence. Madame will not be happy.

"Korsak," Chang stepped toward a man of somewhat a hulking build and an equally staggering stench, "Madame will be back soon. She would really not appreciate this mess."

"I hear ye! The boys and I will get the mess sorted. Don't you worry yourself there Chang," Korsak pushed his chips onto the pile, "All in boys. We just need to finish this hand and we'll be just the men." Korsak winked.

Chang offered a semblance of a smile. Madame had been in a foul mood lately; she feared a less than perfect welcome for her.

"Thanks Korsak," Chang thought it best to add, "It's just, you know how Madame can get and she's been through some with..."

"I know Chang. It'll be hard now that she's gone but I've been there since Madame's been this here tiny," Korsak cradled air in his arms, "I may have gotten on in years but my heart's still in the right place," Korsak smirked, "Well, as right as it'll ever be. And that's with the boss and Madame. We boys just need breathers now and then Chang." Korsak tossed his hand onto the pile. "Show em' boys."

"Yes Korsak," Chang looked down onto her clipboard, looking through a check-list of preparations; Chang liked to stay organized, she knew how hectic the mob world can get and how precise Madame liked things, "Also, have you fixed Madame's toilet?"

"Aw shite!"

"You didn't?"

"I forgot is all. Get me the darn phone book there Frost." Korsak pointed at the dusty volume lying atop the counter.

"We have the internet Sir, I don't see why you can't appreciate it."

Korsak looked to the boy and chuckled to himself. New to the gang and not lacking any nerve or gusto this boy, dared to stand his ground without acquainting with disrespect, well, not frequently at least. Not a bad one to keep around. "Well, this here, will never run out of batteries now would it?" Korsak flipped through the sections.

"No sir," Frost shook his head and frowned, concentrating on his hand, "And I fold."

"Bag the chips for me and sweep up the mess son. I need to call me a plumber."

* * *

"Rizzoli and sons."

"Plumbers yes?"

"Yes sir, to where would we direct the service?"

"16 Drury Lane."

Jane knew that place. Everyone knew that place. It's mob turf. "I think that's a little way out of our service routes Sir."

"I know what ye' thinking kiddo. We need a plumber and you're the best, no?"

"Yes sir, we pride ourselves on that."

"So, we need a plumber. Are you coming or not."

The tone sounded nothing like a question. She weighed the odds - the probability of getting into trouble with the mob by fixing their toilets on their turf, versus actually getting into trouble by refusing to render assistance; tough. "Alright Sir, an hour tops."

"Good on ye kid. 16 Drury Lane and please, no funny business."

"I wouldn't dream of it Sir." She hung up the phone and packed her tools. Best that Frankie's not in, she thought, best I leave a note too.

'Frankie,

Went on a house call little brother. Be good.

-Jane'

She popped her cap onto her unruly curls and slung her tool bag onto her shoulder. Whilst she slid into the van, she thought to herself, no need to be melodramatic here Jane. It's the mob, not the loony and crazed. Toe the line, fix their loo and we'll just go back on with our lives. No drama whatsoever.

* * *

Maura looked at the house. It's Victorian. She had never been one to think that size or even fortune to matter, but she looked at the house and thought, it's Victorian, it's grand and it's now mine. Father has given me a turf of my own. I'll be on my own. She pondered for a moment, the difference between sole proprietorship and glaring solitude even if it's glorified with power. She climbed the steps; she would leave the reflection for, maybe later or tomorrow.

"Madame Isles," her assistant - Chang - greeted her at the door.

She nodded and offered a faint smile.

"Would you like me to take your coat?"

She set her suitcases down by the door and sheds the coat. "Thank you Chang, but I'll be heading to my room," she held onto the coat, "If it's alright, would you kindly pass a message to Korsak that I'll be with them in a moment?"

"Yes Madame, of course." Chang gave a slight smile and turned to go.

She stood at the foyer, taking in the hardwood floors, carved banisters and the paintings that lined the walls. She shook her head and thought, I need a new place. A smaller place. A place that I can call my own. This is neither proprietorship nor solitude, this is a lonely suffocation.

She started up the stairs to her room; she had duties to attend to, so best to collect her mind.

* * *

Jane rang the bell. "Rizzoli and sons."

The door opened and a bespectacled broad welcomed her in.

"Are you the plumber?"

"Yes ma'am."

"I'm a little tied up at the moment, is it okay if I just gave you directions?" The broad seemed hurried and impatient.

"Sure ma'am. Just direct away."

"Alright. Second floor, turn right, third door."

"Got it. Thanks." She started towards the stairs, appraising the mahogany.

* * *

Maura hung up her coat. She hung up the coat; her mother's coat - Hope's.

She sat on the bed, slumped. Hope's gone, she thought. Is hope gone too, she wondered. She sighed.

"You've gotten your own turf, you're a mob boss now Maura," she laid back on the bed, "You're a mob boss now Maura. There's no getting out now." She tried for a smile but tears answered instead.

"You're a mob boss now Maura," she took in a breath and headed for the lavatory, "Wash up and do your part right. At least for tonight."

* * *

"It's a clogged bowl and sink," Jane assessed her 'clients', "Nothing I can't fix." She rolled up her sleeves and got to fixing.

She reached for her wrench and looked under the sink. She started to sing.

"Nuts and bolts, clogs and spills, just some of the things we plumbers fix. Here's my wrench, there's my rag, and I have me a plunger too. My name is Jane, and Mr toilet, how are you feeling today. I see that you're clogged, but just worry not, I'll have you flushing so very soon. I may be a plumber now and I might live in a snobbish town but one day things may change for me-"

"Excuse me?"

She stopped mid-screw, she heard a voice.

"Ouch!"

She lay back down, under the forgotten sink.

"My apologies," soft fingers fluttered along the fore of her head.

She felt pain, there must be a bump but she was not registering pain, she was registering fingers, across her forehead. So soft they were - the flutters.

"No ma'am, it's okay," she shook her head, urging the fingers away, "The fault's mine."

The woman was kneeling on the bathroom floor, with grime lining the tiles. She remembered her place; how could she have had her kneel alongside her in this lowly state.

"Please get up there ma'am. The floor's grimy and that's a lovely dress you have on." She almost remembered her place. She sent a smile; she couldn't help herself.

The woman smiled. "I'm sorry to have startled you." The woman stood, and offered a hand.

She took it.

The woman evened out the creases of her dress.

She felt no irritation. On any other occasion, she would most probably have been irritated; a fancy lady there, caring so much about her clothes. She just looked at her. The woman continued evening out her dress. Nose a little pink. Soft golden brown hair. She had never wished harder to be anything but a plumber.

"Sorry there ma'am. I'll be done with the toilet and sink soon," she weakly gestured, hoping to catch the woman's eyes.

"It's alright. I'll head to another. I wouldn't want to hold you up." The woman turned to go.

"Right." She uttered, looking down. She turned to head back to the ground, where her wrench laid waiting. She listened as the woman's footsteps grew fainter; the woman had walked away.

She wondered why her heart ached a little.

* * *

Maura heard singing.

She looked into the bathroom and saw a woman, dressed in a plaid shirt and jeans. Few strands of her curls had escaped her cap and she was lying under the toilet sink. Fixing the sink and singing.

She looked at her, taking in her form, taking in her song. She smiled; she dares to dream, she dares to hope - this woman fixing the toilet sink.

She had lost hope.

She looked at the woman and hope did not seem so lost.

"Excuse me?" She called.

The woman stopped, the woman sat up. The woman cried out.

She ran over to check for bruises, a forming bump. She knew what she was doing, of course she knew. This was what she would rather be doing - checking for bumps, looking over bruises, bodies and bumps.

She fluttered inside a little. The woman's skin gave off such warmth. The woman smelt of lavender too.

"No ma'am, it's okay," the woman said and started shaking her head. Her fingers fell away, as the woman added, "The fault's mine."

She was kneeling on the floor. The cold tiled floor. She liked this position, this place; this closeness next to the woman.

The woman smiled as she urged her to stand up, as she complimented her dress.

She simply smiled.

"I'm sorry to have startled you." She sent an apology encompassed with a smile. She offered the woman, her hand. The woman took it.

She was aware of the tingling of her receptors against the woman's coarse skin. She straightened her dress. She was conscious of how lost her hands were feeling. She straightened her dress.

"Sorry there ma'am. I'll be done with the toilet and sink soon." The woman said.

She lifted her eyes, to watch as she gestured. She did not want soon; she wanted a little while more, a little while longer. She wanted to hold the woman up, if she only could.

"It's alright. I'll head to another. I wouldn't want to hold you up." She turned to go, ignoring the hives she had developed.

"Right."

She heard the woman's soft answer.

She wondered why her own heart ached a little but, duty calls. She has a father to please and a mob boss to be.

* * *

**A/N: **Hi there, thank you, for the time~  
The idea for this came from Tumblr Rizzlers, whom I have regretfully forgotten who they actually are, so I can't and won't take full credit for the starting idea - of Jane and Maura, following their fathers' footsteps.  
Anything else, it was my addition, and I hope that well, all's alright. The song Jane sings to goes with the tune, 'skater boy' by Avril Lavigne. I know it doesn't quite match but it was one of my own silly snippets of fun. Feel free to sing-along. Hahaha. Hmm.  
**New A/N: **Hi there, apologies, there has been a slight edit; nothing story related, just the writing style.  
**Another A/N: **Again, a change has happened - writing style wise.


	2. Chapter 2

"Madame Isles, may I?"

Maura offered a small smile and a simple wave, beckoning Chang to enter. She had just put away her books, might as well begin the assimilation now. She sighed under her breath; a little release where there can now be none.

"Chang, Isles is what I go by back in France. If you would just address me as I should be in Boston? Madame would do."

"Yes Madame," Chang looked to her clipboard and jotted something down.

She wondered if it's that important a note, what she preferred to be called - it is.

"Korsak and his men have been made aware of your arrival. When should I be arranging the meeting?"

"I'll be down in a moment, five minutes," she waved Chang along, "Thank you Chang." She smiled. She needed a little more, time.

"Yes Madame." Chang closed the door behind her.

She closed her eyes and took in a breath. Deep breaths - they help center a person.

* * *

"Done," Jane looked at her handiwork - checked the sink, not a leak. Checked the flush, it flushes well. She packed up her tools and proceeded to clean up after herself.

She caught sight of herself in the mirror - sheen of perspiration across her forehead and strands of hair clung to the same very area of skin. You're a mess Rizzoli. She said to herself.

She scrubbed at her fingers, washing away the grime. She rubbed at her washed face and let loose her curls. That's better, she thought. Less a plumber, more a well, what does it even matter. She thought as she exited the bathroom, eager to pass on the standard line of, "Sir or Ma'am, the bathroom's looking fine, we'll send the bill over and thank you for choosing Rizzoli and sons," she recited; a well-practiced line and a signal of a job errand over and done.

She felt a slight thrill of excitement, maybe she would meet the woman again - the one with the soft golden brown hair.

She touched her own forehead, remembering the flutters.

* * *

You can do this Maura, just think and execute. She said to herself, a morale boost. As she walked through the opened door to the study, the latter word's other connotation sank in. Heaviness grew in her chest and she simply shook away the notion of right and wrong. There will just be duty for now.

She noticed that she was approaching the bathroom; she felt her cortisol level drop a little.

She walked pass an empty lavatory; and she wondered why it had even mattered.

* * *

Jane stood at the foyer. The bespectacled broad was nowhere to be found.

She looked around, no one. She paced the carpeted ground; each pace, a slight stomp. Big places made her feel small and she was not one to like feeling small.

She paced; each pace, a slight stomp.

* * *

As Maura reached the stairs, she saw her – the woman with the song under the toilet sink.

She watched as each taken pace, accentuated the woman's long limber legs, the snug of the woman's jeans hugging the woman's bottom. She remembered the tingling of the receptors on the tips of her own fingers.

She shook away the thoughts of attraction. She descended the stair slowly, determined to drag out the call of duty and partly to admire the woman.

The woman's hair had been let down, the curls now free - a wild mane, such freedom. She found it difficult to concentrate; each step on the stair a usually unconscious movement now a task requiring much focus.

The woman must have heard her, because the woman looked up. She had never seen a brighter smile.

* * *

Jane heard footsteps. She stopped her pacing and looked up. It's her.

The woman with the soft golden brown hair, and those legs…she swallowed. The flutters, she remembered. Can there be a more beautiful person. A statement, she thought, not a question. She smiled.

"Hi Ma'am," she hesitated, the practiced line seemed so, wrong to be used here; she did not want to leave, "I…" She discarded her line, she forgot her words.

She smiled at the woman and she must have blushed. She could feel that the side of her ears were warm and flushed.

"Hi, I'm not going to hurt you, don't worry, there's no sink here," the woman smiled.

She laughed. "No ma'am, there isn't and it's not anything that you did ma'am. It was-"

"I shouldn't have startled you."

"Well, I shouldn't have been that easily startled."

"Do you make it a habit to take the blame for everything?" The woman gave off a little laugh. "Now, how's your head?" The woman touched her forehead.

She winced but told the woman an, "It's okay," because the tingling sensation soothed out the pain. She focused on the sensation of the woman's fingers, on looking at the woman, and she smiled, at the woman.

"Madame Doyle." A voice called from the side. She watched the woman's features shift from amusement to bemusement.

She took a step back, remembering now that she was in a mob house. There are boundaries.

"Ma'am, the bathroom's looking fine, we'll send the bill over and thank you for choosing Rizzoli and sons." She ended the well-practiced line with a flourish of a bow and a smile. There are boundaries, there are lines, but there's also, a beautiful woman across that line. She could not just give her a practiced line; could not just leave like she was not making her heart yearn for her to smile at her one more time.

The woman sent her a nod and a smile.

She sent her another bow and left the house thinking if maybe, a pipe would just burst, maybe not right now but one day. So they could call for a plumber, so that she would call for her again. No drama Jane, she reminded herself.

She readjusted her tool bag and drove on back, to where she belonged- Rizzoli and sons.

* * *

Maura had enjoyed that. She had felt like a human, sharing a normal conversation; a nice connection. It was an added benefit, to hear that voice, to touch that skin of lavender and warmth. She held back a smile. She had been called.

"Korsak," she gave a slight smile.

"It's nice to have you back Madame Doyle." Korsak returned the smile.

She fought the urge to retch; she would dismiss that name, at any possible instance. "Just Madame would do Korsak," she was careful to arrange her features into that of a smile, "Tell me now, how have things been since I was away?"

Just think and execute Maura, just think and execute. She repeated to herself as she entered the office, her office, to meet the gang, her mob. You're their boss now. You may not like it but, you're not known also as the Queen of the dead for nothing. She told herself.

* * *

**A/N: **Hi there, thank you, for the time~  
Unfortunately, at this very point of re-upload, this story has to pause here. I'll get to it one day, I will. Apologies.  
Thank you, for the time=)


	3. Chapter 3

Maura sat in the study, sipping from a stem of wine, as she thought back on the day - the meeting, and mainly, the bathroom meet.

She traced the tips of her fingers, relishing in the memory of the reaction of her receptors - the tingling of her skin, of her fingers; the tingling sensation of touching the woman's skin.

It tingles. It flushes.

She searched her mind for a scientific explanation. A sudden rush of blood to her capillaries? An unlikely pressure to her nerves?

Science, she loves it, she relies on it. Unwavering facts, irrefutable studies, tested hypothesis...stability.

Unlike Hope.

* * *

"I need you back at Boston Maura," her father had stated on the phone.

Her father had kept her - in his words - safe, by giving him to the Isles - a respectable, well-to-do family in France. She had been adopted, brought up, in a manner that was in all sense refined, and moral. She adored and loved her adoptive mother - Constance Isles.

Constance was a renowned artist, and in her guardianship, she learnt - she grew to have a delicate if not acute sense of culture and sense. Be it in music, arts, or fashion. She had been given a shelter, an education, and really anything if she had asked - except that she hardly ever did.

Constance and she were mother and daughter; but they weren't family.

Her family, her biological relations, sent greeting cards, and appeared to her in one form and no other - news articles. Her mother was a brilliant physician. Her father was a brilliant mobster.

They had discussions, and they learnt from each other - her adoptive mother and her. She had been interested in science, in forensic science specifically, and Constance had ensured that she had gotten the best education.

She had been in all sense of the word - fortunate.

Constance had been there - her first day at school, her graduation, and had vetted even her social options; all like a parent would. She adored and loved her adoptive mother, but she wasn't Hope.

Her father - Paddy Doyle - mob boss, with hoards of men at his bidding, managed only to secure pictures, pictures of her first day at school, her graduation, and had vetted in his own manner, her social options; all like a parent would too, in principle.

Her mother - Hope Martin - remained her mother, in name. Her mother was there - present but unavailable. Her mother had sent timely greetings, had sent over gifts, and yet had only ever asked, for one picture of her - when she finally completed the awkward phases of growth - and she knew it, she looked like her mother, but could easily come off as her adoptive mother's daughter.

Her father had explained that her mother hated him for doing what he did - taking her away, hiding her away, keeping her safe, by ridding her from her mother's presence; and maybe, she had also given her mother the concession and allowance to allow her mother to hate her.

Her father had only told her mother about her when she had grown enough to call Constance her mother; and her father had only told her mother after Constance had finally put her foot down and called her father out on his passive, and selfish participation in her life.

"I need you back at Boston Maura," her father had repeated. She had offered no reply.

Her father had been calling her back over to him; and her mother had been unreachable; while Constance was in a room above her.

"I need you back here to help me Maura," her father had softly spoken.

She had never been needed. She had been asked, during summer breaks, to help her father with his immoral business. She had always declined. She is her father's daughter, as evidently seen in medical school - Queen of the dead - given for how she would gut a dead creature, with neither a blink nor a moment of hesitation. She is her father's daughter, but she is also Constance's; because she would only ever cut into the flesh of the dead. She had always declined, and he had only asked again next summer. She had never been needed.

"I don't think that I'm right for your line of business Paddy," she had answered.

"Your mother's…" Her father had paused. She had waited.

"Hope's dead. And I need you Maura." Her father had said.

Her mother had been unreachable; and now her father was calling her back over to him, because her mother is unreachable.

She had said yes.

Her father needed her, and her mother was no longer here. Her father needed her, and she is her father's daughter. She's the Queen of the dead; she is also her father's daughter.

She had said yes; and he had said, "I'll send a plane over."

Constance had handed a coat to her - Hope's.

* * *

She took a sip from the glass of wine atop the study desk, as her fingers trailed the minutes of the meeting Chang had sent her.

Just think and execute. Just think and execute. That had been her mantra throughout the meeting.

Korsak had been kind, patient, and understanding. He had been her liaison with her father for as long as she could remember. He had been the one who called and asked if she needed anything. He had been the one who came over to check out her social options. He had been the one who, stood between her and her father - their connection; and without whom, maybe her father might not have even been here, nor her. He had helped her father hide her before she stopped being a Doyle, and an Isles. Korsak was her right-hand man now, because she's the mob boss while her father had taken some time off.

Her father needed her. Her father needed her in Boston. He was nowhere near.

Turf wars, drug wars, war after war - killing and killing; that's the life her father led, that's the business her father had taken over and chosen to stay in.

While she would much rather prefer finding out causes of death, she knew now that she got to choose how death would befall them - men who went against her father, against her.

She took another sip and reclined back into her chair.

Constance had her chair specifically tailored to the shape of her back, to provide respite for her weary back and spine. Like the gentle embrace of a mother's hug, she tried not to compare. Constance was not easy with affection, and she had her chair flown over from France to Boston.

The wine trickled down her esophagus, and her fingers tapped melodically on her chair.

She thought back to the bathroom meet. At how her fingers had run over a skin so warm, so smooth, and how the woman's skin smelt of lavender - calming, and hopeful. She found herself smiling at the memory.

"Madame?"

She turned to the call of her name - Chang's at the door.

"Come in please," she beckoned, and sat away from the back of her chair.

"I have the reports you wanted," Chang sat a folder down at the desk.

"Do they indicate favourable conditions to carrying out my orders?" She asked as she looked through the report. She liked Chang, and Chang was the closest social contact that she actually managed to have.

Korsak's verdict had been: She looks up to you Madame Doyle, your junior Susie Chang.  
Constance's had been: Susie likes you, she won't judge you. We all need a friend Maura, try it, you'll be fine.

She had since then had Chang for a lunch companion, and in years to come, an assistant to her matters when it came to her father. Chang could do what she feared - communicate with the living people.

"It's different but feasible, and Madame?"

She looked up. "Yes Chang?"

"It's a _good_ plan," Chang smiled.

She smiled; she had caught the emphasis, "Thank you Chang," she closed the report, "Could I trouble you to relay the message to Korsak?"

"It's no problem Madame," Chang sent another smile as she reached for the report, "And I've gotten a car ready for your use tomorrow," Chang nodded before she closed the door behind her as she left.

She finished the remaining wine, and looked forward to tomorrow. She had done as she had to – her duties. She would reward herself appropriately, with a drive around Boston, around the town that'll be hers for as short a period as possible. She might even purchase a place of her own - somewhere smaller, less grand, and stifling.

She might even, look for the woman who made her feel human.

The woman with the song under the toilet sink, the woman with the lavender smelling skin, the woman who caused her fingertips to tingle.

She didn't need science to deduce the obvious. There was nothing wrong with her fingers - she was just attracted to the woman.

Think and execute. Think and execute. She had the power to decide how her mob kills; she can breathe a little easier now. Think and execute. It's a good plan. She is Constance's daughter too.

* * *

**A/N: **Hi there, thank you, for the time~  
Updates! Two chapters and, I do hope that this fanfic doesn't veer too off in terms of characterization. Thanks for the interest in this story~


	4. Chapter 4

Jane sat on her couch with a beer in her hand and the television on.

She preferred to leave work at work, and for home to be home; but there was really nothing she could find on the television to distract her thoughts and, it did not help that she had to help unclog the toilet of her neighbour's just because, she's a plumber.

She slammed down an empty bottle and opened another. Today was not a good day.

* * *

She had driven in her van, weaving through the jam, honking at anyone who got in her way. It wouldn't be a problem if I wasn't a plumber. She had grumbled as she had gunned the engine when she could.

She had managed to return to the shop in one piece, a little distracted and a little disappointed. She might never see the woman again - the one who had given her the flutters - and that was what was really bothering her.

"I do a fine job, a great job. Those pipes would never burst!" She had muttered angrily to herself as she set her tool bag down on the counter, and had returned to taking stock - exactly what she was doing before the very much unneeded phone call came.

"Sis!"

"Shit Frankie. Don't sneak up on me," she had glared as she clutched onto the box of bolts she had been carrying.

"Sorry Janie, but you went on a house call?" Frankie had asked.

"You took too long at the dump," she had grinned, "I had to do it myself. Pop prided himself on being the best in town, and I couldn't turn a customer down, could I?"

"There's no need to poop on your own school Jane," Frankie laughed, "And you could have texted me the address. You haven't done house calls since…"

"Since your brother Tommy graduated from that dump, and I could retire that," she had gestured to her tool bag, "But I've still got mad skills, so it was no problem," she had winked, "And thanks for heading over to the dump for me. I spent too many years there, at that posy dump, and I'll have personally left all their faucets running if I had been there," she had jotted down the number of bolts left and proceeded to another box. Taking stock, was not her ideal task to do but, she would rather this than answering house calls, especially not like one to her previous school – that pretentious, bully-filled, snobbish - she had shook her head and sighed, and had carried on taking stock, it seemed at least more a mundane task than a plumber-orientated task.

"They might not have let you in anyway sis," Frankie had walked over to his counter, "They resized the door, Roly-poly Rizz-"

She had tossed a bolt Frankie's way.

"Watch it," she had stated without looking Frankie's way.

"Anyway, regarding the dump, your school, how much are we planning to charge them?" Frankie had asked as he helped carry more boxes of supplies over.

"The usual rate. You gave their plumbing system a look over right? Anything extra?" She had pulled out the billing pad.

"I found the basketball trophy you had won for them flushed?"

"Watch it." She had repeated. She's always up for a good tease and match of sarcasm but, she had been feeling miffed enough to begin with. "Watch it Frankie," she had placed a bolt in front of her on the counter to prove a point.

"Anything happened on the house call Janie?"

She had turned to look at her little brother. "What? Stupid questions aside, do you know where the little shit head Tommy went to this time?" She had tried not to come off too angry, but her brothers were her responsibility now, and between running the shop, and trying to work out her own escape - her career path - she would be immensely pleased if her youngest brother would stop disappearing on them.

"Tommy's just, sensitive and he's probably just running around with his friends for a while. He'll be back," Frankie had answered, "And I'm sorry sis...I should be helping out more, and -"

The phone had ring then; she had gratefully answered, was mildly disappointed that it wasn't whom she had instinctively hope for, and sent Frankie on another house call.

She had billed the bill for 16 Drury Lane, and had gotten back to counting out the supplies.

* * *

She liked her brothers, she loved her brothers, but she was really getting so tired of this plumbing shit - and she really meant shit. Her pop had brought her along when he worked and, she had thought then that she would have seen her fair share of all things to do with plumbers, was pleased to help out when she could but, she did not want to give up a detective career to be a plumber.

She downed another bottle.

She should be upset, she should be sad, she should be grilling herself on why she's not more worried about her family and her family business, than how much her heart is actually aching for the flutters she had experienced.

No drama Jane, no drama. She told herself as she opened another bottle.

Years she had spent, trying to get through school the best she can. Ignoring the snide comments of rich so called friends, and teases for being rounder, poorer, or a plumber, and just doing what she can to get good grades, great grades, to enter into the police academy. Not two weeks in, and not since she got the chance to make amends, her parents died.

She guzzled the beer.

No drama Jane, no drama. She told herself each day. She had to be the responsible child, the big sister, the owner of their shop so pop doesn't flip in his grave.

Being a cop was dangerous, stupid, and worried her mother on end. Risks Janie, risks. If we died and you died, who would take care of your brothers? That was her ma's standard line of argument.

She dropped out of the academy the day she received the news of their death.

Rizzoli and sons. She wasn't even in her pop's grand plan, and Tommy was supposed to be helping so she can continue on her own dream. But who cares about her dreams? As long as she gets the sinks fixed, the toilets working, and the bills paid.

She turned off the television - it was all just loud and annoying.

She couldn't even be attracted to a right person.

The woman with the soft golden brown hair, the beautiful woman, the woman with the fingers on her forehead and the flutters they had caused her.

She couldn't even be attracted to a right person - the woman in a mob's house. She took another gulp.

She laid back on the couch, beer drank, and a little drunk. She ran her fingers along her own forehead, feeling nothing different, nothing special, the small bump now gone, and remembering the flutters.

She closed her eyes and hoped for sleep. Today wasn't a good day, or a bad day. She met someone today. Someone who actually looked at her, and made her feel something that opposes her everyday reminder - the woman who caused the flutters was drama, and she liked drama.

With drama came risks, and was that not why she loved the idea of being a cop once? The chase, the adrenaline rush, and the sense of justice it provided.

The sensation too, of being able to walk into a room and to be seen as her, to be acknowledged as her. As her, and not as the plumber's daughter, or as the Rizzoli boys' big sister, but as her - Detective Jane Rizzoli.

How nice would that be? She thought as she cradled an empty bottle. It wasn't a good day, it wasn't a bad day. It was just a day where, she had to bill a mob house, and find herself considering the notion of having pipes burst so she can do another house call. She'll even scrimp a little on her next meal and give them a discount if the woman appeared again.

She mumbled her goodnights, to her parents and to her brothers. She mumbled her goodnights and fell asleep, trying to conjure up memories or dreams, of when she had some inkling still of what it means to be free.

She held onto the memory of the flutters; they warmed her, and she felt free.

* * *

**A/N:** Hi there, thank you, for the time~  
Confession, I did not study how to be either a mob boss or a plumber. I meant to, but I didn't so, there's that. Apologies...Hmm. Hope it's all alright nonetheless, and...maybe, you could also check out the message I had left on my profile? It addresses future fanfics, if you intend to read them. All else aside, thank you, for the time=)  
**New a/n: **As pointed out in the review, the grammatical error has thus been rectified, and thank you=)  
Example line: "I'm not going to lie, I've always had a problem with laying down such lines...and, I've been the laid back kind, having lied often and hardly ever laying down lines." Right...? Is that, right? It makes little sense probably but, "grammar is the greatest joy in life".  
"Delmo is not a word" Hahaha. I'm quoting Aunt Josephine now. "Banana."  
Thank you, nonetheless and, as always, do feel free to teach me grammar - I do mean it=)


	5. Chapter 5

The bill had been sent, but Jane wanted it delivered.

It was her one and only chance; the pipes would not burst.

Jane tracks down the mailman and she knocks on the door.

She paces the little front step, and realizes that she has no other excuse or reason but the bill - and the bespectacled broad looked as if she could kill.

* * *

Maura heard the knock on the door; Chang was somewhere else about the house, finishing an errand she had her run.

She steps towards it, the door, and opens it.

* * *

And before either Jane or Maura could say a word, the bill in Jane's hand begins to move.

Not a second too long of a delay later, it yells: Happy April Fools!

The mailman was apparently not handing out letters or bills.

* * *

**A/N:** I had to. Happy April Fools from HaveringFool!=)  
Do disregard this chapter in terms of the story progression.


End file.
